Dreams
by casstic
Summary: Harley dreams after a night with the Joker, and it's more accurate than she thinks. Mentioned nudity/implied sex/direct reference to violence. Nothing too explicit. BTAS-verse.
1. Puddin'

_"I like what I've heard about you. Especially the name. Harleen Quinzel. Rework it a bit, and you get..."_

Harley.

She threw away everything for me. She can never go back to her old life, not since she helped one of Gotham's most dangerous back onto the streets. Not since she ditched the glasses and instead covered her beautiful face with a layer or six of makeup - and somehow, her skin is still baby soft. Not since she traded the 'respectable psychologist' outfit for the tight vinyl I love her in.

_"Like the clown character harlequin, I know."_

I'd trapped her, with my bit about just wanting someone to understand. Manipulated her, like I've done with so many, with my spilling of stories that even I can't guarantee the truthfulness (or otherwise) of.

My little harlequin sleeps so peacefully, her red-and-black draped over a chair in the corner of the room, the blanket pulled up around her but not completely tucked in under, so that I can join her (if I please) when my cigarette is finished. Other nights, I sleep on the same bed, but not under the blanket; or even out on the couch. Once I was angry, and I forced her to wake up and leave our bed. _My_ bed, I'd insisted. I'm not proud of that.

I wonder about her. Her body is bruised from the way I treat her - a mark from my hand, gripping her shoulder, is visible above the blanket. As if knowing I'm looking, she rolls onto her side and pulls it up to her neck. I know I'm doing her more harm than good. Sometimes, the part of me that actually, truly loves Harley thinks it would be better if she never saw me again. (A bigger part of me cares only about myself, and I want to keep her around. Even when I hate her. She's useful.) But then, always when I'm right on the brink of convincing myself it's better for everyone if she just goes, I come into our home and call, "Harl?" And she sticks her head out of whatever room she's in and squeals happily, bounding over and tossing her arms around me with a cheerful, "Hi, puddin'!"

_"Knock, knock, puddin'. Say hello to your new, improved Harley Quinn."_

Tonight, I want to be close. I put out my cigarette with about a quarter left, and move under the blanket with her, allowing myself to feel her smooth skin. Her face is still slightly red from the last time I hit her. I feel a pang of affection for her, glad she's not awake to see it.  
"I'm sorry, Harl," I whisper, softly kissing her chest, between her breasts.

"That's alright, puddin'," I hear her murmur sleepily, and I jerk away from her to look at her, mildly surprised.

Oh.

She's mumbling in her sleep.

What are you dreaming, my little minx, my harlequin?


	2. Poo

_"Well, I've always had an attraction for extreme personalities."_

My dreams about him are wrong, I know that. I know that when I wake up in the morning, there's no way to tell what I'll see. Hopefully, things will be going well, and my head will be in his lap, and he'll be absently winding my blonde hair around his fingers (I need to re-dye it, my roots are showing) and smile - a genuine smile, not that crazy grin that's every bit as attractive but far less precious - and say softly, "good morning, poo, are you hungry?"

And I'll sigh, quite happily, and close my eyes again but mumble, "absolutely, Mista J," and he'll slowly move me back onto the bed and go to find some food (and I'll go in a few minutes later, having slipped my nightgown back on, and he'll still be staring into the fridge and I'll push him out of the way and make breakfast as usual).

But this is unlikely, because things are not generally going particularly well, and even when they are, he still has a tendency to be too distracted for me. It's far more common for me to either wake up first and bring him his morning coffee - he drinks it black, _yech_ - or be yelled at for not doing so.

_"It's only natural that you'd be attracted to a man who would make you laugh again."_

They're also weird, my dreams, but I suppose that's how dreams are. Sometimes I'm still Harleen in them, but usually I'm me, and they can get pretty graphic. Tonight, I'm reliving our activities of an hour or two earlier, though without the pain. I've had this one before. It's like he's extremely gentle, but other than that everything about the act itself is pretty much the same as in real life.

And afterwards, in my dream, I'm folding up my harlequin costume, and then putting on my old Harleen clothes - I think I still have on my makeup, mask, and headpiece, but my body is dressed in my professional outfit, my favorite 'doctory' white coat - but when he touches me, I notice even while still in the dream that it feels the same as it does when he touches me through my costume. It's a slightly possessive touch, a grip on my shoulder like I always get before I exit his line of sight, reminding me to come back, and he says, "Until next time, Doctor Quinzel," even though I'm pretty sure that even when I _was_ Harleen, he never called me that.

_"It seemed like we would live happily ever after."_

Tonight, the ending is slightly different. After the cold goodbye, he kisses my chest - I don't know if my shirt disappears or is open or what, but I feel his wet lips over my esophagus, against my skin - and he looks up at me before I leave and whispers, "I'm sorry, Harl."  
"That's alright, puddin'," I say automatically, though slightly confused, and I turn to leave. The dream ends before I ever make it through the front door.


End file.
